<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>A Thousand Words in My Hands by cROAissant</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28979502">A Thousand Words in My Hands</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cROAissant/pseuds/cROAissant'>cROAissant</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, FE3HAUBang, Female My Unit | Byleth, Gen, Good Uncle Rufus, Three Houses AU Bang, communication saves the day</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:41:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,256</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28979502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cROAissant/pseuds/cROAissant</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It was bulky in his hands, larger and heavier than he expected it to be despite its manageable size. He traced his fingers across the errant scratches on its body, a sign of frequent use rather than careless mishandling. Some of the more detailed work — the logo, brand and model type — had faded somewhat, but he could still make them out if he squinted hard enough.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“This is a camera, Mitya. Papa’s first camera.”</i></p><p> </p><p>After losing many of his family and friends, Dimitri is afraid that he will forget their faces. One day, he and his uncle Rufus find his father’s old camera, and it changes his life for the better.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd &amp; Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd &amp; Rufus Blaiddyd, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Three Houses AU Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Thousand Words in My Hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey, everyone! This fic has been a long time coming. I was inspired by <a href="https://twitter.com/byletri/status/1194691543350665216?s=21">this tweet thread</a> back in 2019, but didn't quite have the courage to actually write until late last year. I'm thrilled to finally be able to post the first chapter and have <a href="https://twitter.com/yhjbana/status/1354249897206145024?s=21">art from the marvelous Bana</a> for the Three Houses AU Bang. It isn't embedded in the fic yet because it's a scene for the third chapter, so here’s link in the meantime.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “You really want to give it to me?” His eyes, despite being the same shape and color, were far warmer than his own. It was one of the many ways people told them apart. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He reached out to ruffle his brother’s hair, laughing when Lambert let out an indignant cry, “Of course, you’re the one with an eye for pretty things, after all.” </em><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It took half a year of physical therapy for Dimitri to be released from the hospital. He left the sterile, white-walled building with scars marring his flesh, a clouded right eye, and the haunting memory of his loved ones’ final moments. His scars will fade, and he will eventually adapt to a single good eye, but none of that mattered when all he could hear was screaming. They told him that the voices will quiet down one day, maybe even disappear altogether. His uncle had scheduled regular sessions with a reputable trauma therapist to ensure that it would.</p><p>However, despite Dimitri’s consent to therapy, did he truly want them to leave him?</p><p>With his home and many of his loved ones lost to the infernal flames that night, the voices were all he would be able to remember them by.</p><p>There were photos, of course, more than enough to fill a gallery and a half. Portraits of a regal man with a distant but benevolent gaze, of the gentle woman who stood by his side, of the bodyguards flanking them in sentry as they shook hands with long-time business partners.</p><p>But they are not the family that Dimitri knew.</p><p>Those official photos don’t show a father who laughed at terrible jokes and occasionally turned a blind eye to the small boy hiding from tutors under his desk. They don’t show his mother who sang lullabies and danced with him across the halls, socked feet perched on delicate toes. They don’t show friends, young and old, who may as well have been his own flesh and blood. They don’t show Jean, who terrified everyone by entering through the windows, nor Lyosha who kept a stash of muffins for them to snack on. Not Owen, not Carys, nor Claire.</p><p>Not even Glenn. </p><p>Dimitri fears that one day, he will forget their faces, their real faces, and all that will be left of them will be those official portraits and the screaming in his dreams.</p><p>“Boy, <em> boy </em>!” He jumped at the sharp call. “I will not call you a third time.”</p><p>Dimitri scrambled from his seat and out the door, searching the second-floor hall before catching sight of his uncle’s scowling face at the bottom of the stairs. He felt the heat rush to his cheeks when he realized that Uncle Rufus had most certainly seen him running about in a panic.</p><p>He was quick to right himself, ready to apologize for the trouble as was custom, but the older man raised a hand to silence him.</p><p>“Dinner went cold,” he said, voice flat, “and I gave up waiting after half an hour and ate without you.” He climbed the wooden staircase, footfalls squeaking slightly under his dress shoes. The floors were recently waxed, Dimitri noted with a curious frown. Odd, he was sure that the housekeeper wasn’t due for another few days.</p><p>An impatient cough interrupted his train of thought and Dimitri cringed. His uncle had likely been waiting for a response or an apology, more likely the latter. This wasn’t the first time Dimitri’s mind wandered in the middle of a conversation. Before he could muster up the courage to speak, however, Rufus spoke.</p><p>“I trust that you know how to use a microwave.” Icy blue eyes, so similar yet colder than Dimitri’s father’s, bore into him. “If not, then I’m sure you can look it up somewhere.”</p><p>Dimitri’s shoulders slumped, eyes falling back to the floor in disappointment. “Ah, yes. I see… my apologies for keeping you, uncle, and thank you for the meal as well.”</p><p>This would be the third time this week that he’d been late, he mused. He and Rufus had a… strained relationship at best, and the silence of his new home was stifling. At this point, Dimitri would rather have an awkward meal with a man that mostly ignored him than have to sit all alone at the far too large dining table.</p><p>He knew that his blank periods were getting out of hand, but he just couldn’t find it in himself to do anything about them. The days had been blending together so well that he barely felt the hours pass. Dimitri was sure he would have missed meals entirely if it weren’t for the insistent, albeit late, calls from his uncle when he took too long to come. Dr. Seteth told him that this current state was a normal reaction to everything he had experienced, but Dimitri thought otherwise. He should be better than this.</p><p>“For heaven’s sake boy,” Rufus grunted, “It’s bad enough I have to hear those ancient windbags talk to me like that at all hours of the day, I don’t want to hear it from you too. You’re what, fourteen? Use your small words and contractions before I explode.”</p><p>“Ah, oh… um, my apo— ugh, I mean. I’m sorry, uncle.”</p><p>The man sighed, looking as if he wanted to say more. Instead, he turned away and trudged off toward his office at the end of the hall without another word. The door shut quietly behind him, signaling what was surely another long night of reviewing reports and proposals.</p><p>With a deep sigh of his own, Dimitri made his way down the stairs to eat another meal by himself. Thankfully, it wasn’t as far a walk to the dining room as his old home had been.</p><p>Dimitri was no stranger to grandeur, he knew he was far more fortunate than most in that regard. He wanted for nothing growing up and surely received everything in excess as his father’s only child and heir. But now more than ever, a two-story penthouse suite with a central crystal chandelier, a study with a collection of books that would put most schools to shame, and a wide oak dining table with elaborate carvings seemed far too much for only two people to be living in.</p><p>There was a bowl of Cheesy Verona Stew and a small plate of bread rolls on his place at the table. In the handful of times that he and his uncle had shared a meal, they would stay adjacent to each other — his uncle at the head and Dimitri to his right. They’d come to an unspoken agreement that sitting opposite to one another across the length of the table was both ridiculous and unnecessary.</p><p>They’ve never had any guests come over as far as he knew, but he supposed they would eventually have to discuss dining arrangements for any business gatherings his uncle would be required to hold. His father held them frequently, but when Dimitri was lucky, he could slink away with his friends. When he wasn’t quite as fortunate, he had been forced to sit through boring, repetitive conversations with women who pinched his cheeks or snooty peers who forced their friendship on him. Dimitri supposed he’d have to brace himself for more of the latter now.</p><p>Although, with the way his uncle scoffed at the very idea of interacting with his business partners, let alone their families, it would be some time before Dimitri would have to attend a function.</p><p>Against his better judgement, Dimitri sat down to eat without bothering to reheat his food. Eating had become more of a chore than anything, if he was being perfectly honest. He noticed early on that his sense of taste had muted somewhat since waking up at the hospital. He could detect anything that was strong or familiar enough in taste, but everything else was fragrant but bland. And while the meal set before him was one of his favorites, Dimitri knew he wasn’t in the right mindset to savor it.</p><p>However, despite his melancholy, the sight of his mother’s favorite dish brought a smile to his face. </p><p>
  <em> “The first spoonful has to be a little bit of everything, sweetie. Meat, vegetables, and all that tasty cheese.” </em>
</p><p>He brought the spoon to his mouth and marveled at the lingering warmth as he chewed. Huh, he supposed his uncle preferred his meals extra hot then. He would have to keep that in mind for later. Heating his uncle’s meals just how he liked them was the least he could do for all the man had done for him.</p><p>Dimitri woke about a month after the tragedy. By then, his family had been buried, investigations on the incident had begun, and what remained of his father’s board had scrambled to keep the company afloat. And while Dimitri had been raised from birth to secure the Blaiddyd legacy, he was still just fourteen, and no amount of tutelage could ever prepare a teenager for the world of professional brown-nosing and corporate assholery.</p><p>(His uncle’s words, not his.)</p><p>So who could lead while he recovered and learned?</p><p>Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius had been the best choice. He was already the vice president and chief financial officer, a capable man from a long line of trusted members of the Fraldarius family and his father’s longest and closest friend. However, it was these qualifications that made him a suspect. His name was whispered behind closed doors and dragged through the mud for not being among those who had died.</p><p>Never mind that he had been Lambert’s best friend, that he treated the man like a brother. Never mind that he had been caring for an ill son that night and had lost another to the tragedy. Never mind that he had been overheard talking to Dimitri’s father, just a day before the latter had been killed, discussing security detail.</p><p>
  <em> “Are you sure this is enough, Lambert? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You worry too much, my friend. It’s just a casual get-together. Our regular men should be more than enough to handle a dinner party. Perhaps they’ll even get to enjoy themselves when the stuffier guests are done with their posturing. It’s a shame you and Felix won’t be able to join us, though, Dimitri will be painfully bored without another child around.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes, a pity indeed. At least Glenn will be there to entertain him. I’ve told him to attend the party as a guest, but he says he would rather be there as a guard. That boy of mine, really." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Ha, maybe Dimitri can convince him with enough pestering. No one can resist those big eyes of his, my wife and I especially.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I know that feeling all too well, my friend. Felix has been giving us the hardest time with that little pout of his. I was this close to letting him stay up to watch a movie. If my lovely wife hadn’t been glaring daggers at me all the while, I probably would have given in entirely. Thankfully, the worst of his chickenpox seems to be over, and he’ll be free to wreak havoc on his own soon. Still, I’d feel safer knowing he was actually resting rather than driving another babysitter up the walls.” </em>
</p><p>No. What mattered was that he had the motive, the opportunity, and the means.</p><p>Fortunately, the rumors resulted to very little in the end. While Rodrigue’s credibility wavered momentarily, the board still valued his input regarding who should lead them. His counsel prevented several unsavory candidates from making any headway with their own bids to power.</p><p>In the end, they all came to a reluctant compromise. While Dimitri completed his education, they would be led in interim by a capable man of Blaiddyd blood with no ties to any other member of the board but his own family — Lambert’s older brother, Rufus. The same man who had given up his right to inherit the company before his twentieth birthday.</p><p>Dimitri didn’t know much of his uncle growing up. Rufus wasn’t one for social events, or at least the ones that were hosted by his family. What little he did know, he hadn’t learned from his father either. There was no animosity, as far as anyone was aware, but Rufus had been absent for every important occasion after leaving his family home the very second he came of age.</p><p>His parents had named Rodrigue to be his legal guardian in their wills. However, with the speculation of his possible involvement in the tragedy, taking Dimitri in so soon had been out of the question. Coincidentally, the people who spoke the loudest against this arrangement were the same ones who clamored to adopt him into their own families — officially adopt, no questions asked.</p><p>It shouldn’t have mattered, what they said; one word from him and the arrangement would have pushed through — his parents’ word was law and Dimitri could have easily spoken up to see it come to pass. But he didn’t, and he let them all fight for his custody instead. Because, no matter how much Dimitri wanted the Fradlarius family to take him in, he didn’t think he deserved their goodwill. He couldn’t look Rodrigue and Felix in the eyes without remembering that they’d lost a valued son and brother and gained the wretched little thing that Glenn had died saving as a replacement.</p><p>His potential new families were on the verge of a vicious, very public legal battle when Uncle Rufus stepped in to silence every last one of them.</p><p>Dimitri understood why they all eventually agreed to leave him in his uncle’s care. As his only living relative, it was only natural for custody to have been in his favor. He knew that few of his father’s associates, if any at all, truly wanted to take him in so there was very little argument after Uncle Rufus had presented himself.</p><p>Cynical as it was to think about, he doubted any of them actually wanted to care for him out of the goodness of their hearts. However, he had to wonder just how willing the man had been to take in a ward.</p><p>He wasn’t ignorant of his uncle’s reputation. Dimitri learned very early that people enjoyed gossip as a way to ignore their own problems, and the black sheep of their family’s otherwise pristine background was too interesting for them to pass up in conversation.</p><p>Rebellious in his youth and disastrous in his adulthood, Rufus was the last person anyone would consider leaving a child to. They spoke of how he seduced women one after another into his bed before abandoning them without another word. Of how he frequented bars and casinos, squandering his family’s fortune. Of his biting words and short temper. And the audacity of him appearing out of nowhere to take back the birthright he’d so willingly abandoned before.</p><p>Yet in the handful of weeks they had been living together, Dimitri saw none of that man.</p><p>Not once had his uncle brought a woman home, nor did he frequent the nearby drinking establishments. On nights when sleep evaded him, Dimitri heard his uncle return from late nights, quietly stomping up the stairs to his room. When he found the motivation to stand and press his ear to the door, he heard none of the telltale signs of inebriation, only irritation. He would be fine in the mornings as well, scarfing down breakfast before heading for work.</p><p>Granted, Dimitri wasn’t an expert in matters of this regard; his uncle could have very well been concealing his hangovers and the like. But if the man was as shameless as they said, why would he bother hiding it from his nephew?</p><p>He and his uncle barely spoke since their first meeting, little more than curt pleasantries when they crossed paths, but the man was never cruel. He called Dimitri to meals and reminded him of appointments. Occasionally, he dropped off clothing and books with notes from Felix, Sylvain, and Ingrid. He would wait by the door for Dimitri to pen his replies, deliver them to his friend’s fathers, and give him their responses.</p><p>He never once pointed out that they all owned perfectly good cellphones to communicate with.</p><p>Dimitri blinked at the sound of clinking metal — his spoon had reached the bottom of the bowl. He glanced at the plate of rolls and found it empty as well. Huh, so he had been hungry after all.</p><p>
  <em> “A growing boy’s gotta eat, Dimitri. If you’re picky and skip meals, you’ll be small and cranky for the rest of your life. Like Felix.” </em>
</p><p>He smiled; he supposed Glenn had a point there.</p><p>He stood up and carefully gathered his bowl, cup, and utensils to wash. Dimitri was ashamed to admit that he’d long become accustomed to servants handling chores around the house. However, with only him and his uncle living here, he knew that leaving it all on the table was out of the question.</p><p>“I’ll handle it, boy.”</p><p>Dimitri jumped at the sound of his uncle’s voice, raising his head to meet the man’s eyes. He leaned against the doorframe, his face unreadable. He didn’t even notice him arrive. He scrambled to greet him, but the man spoke first.</p><p>“No, none of that,” he strode forward and took the small stack of dishes and silverware from Dimitri’s arms. “I’ll take care of this. You sit there and wait. We have to talk about something.”</p><p>Dimitri did as instructed, flushing all the while. His uncle likely hadn’t forgotten the first, and only, time that he had washed the dishes by hand. The heat in his face only grew as he remembered the broken plate and inconceivable amount of water he had managed to splash all over himself and the hardwood floor.</p><p>This would have been his second attempt at washing the dishes — this time using the dishwasher that he’d carefully read the manual of — but it seemed that his uncle had expected him to make the same mistakes as before.</p><p>
  <em> Ugh, why can’t I do anything right? </em>
</p><p>He had been so lost in his own embarrassment, Dimitri hadn’t realized that his uncle had returned from cleaning until a bowl of Saghert and Cream was placed before him.</p><p>“Have some of that first, and then we’ll talk. It’s nothing bad,” he added, seeing the spike of panic that surely showed on Dimitri’s face. “We just need to talk about something important, not bad, important. Okay, maybe a little bad. Er, not <em> bad </em> but sad. Ugh, that’s not what I meant. It’ll be heavy, but not so heavy that you should worry.” He plopped himself onto the chair opposite to him, leaning as far back as he could manage. A hand came up to his face to rub his temples. “ <em> Ugh </em>, just eat the damn dessert.”</p><p>Dimitri didn’t feel like eating the damn dessert. In fact, the warm satisfaction from the stew he ate now felt like a storm raging in the pit of his stomach, a storm of fire and ash threatening to burn everything away.</p><p>
  <em> “My brother isn’t very good with words, Mitya, in our youth especially. He has a bad habit of stumbling and rambling when he’s nervous. Give him some time to warm up to you and I’m sure the awkwardness will go away eventually.” </em>
</p><p>Dimitri bit back a groan, wanting nothing more than to retort back to the voices in his head. Unfortunately for him, the voices only ever talked and never listened. Instead, he took a spoonful of his dessert and waited.</p><p>It was only when he’d scraped the last crumb off the bowl did his uncle finally speak. Despite having not looked away from Dimitri for a moment while he ate, he now refused to meet his eyes.</p><p>“Are you sure about tomorrow?”</p><p><em> Tomorrow? What was happening— oh. </em>Dimitri really was losing track of the days if he didn’t realize immediately. Rufus would be taking him to the storage unit that housed what little they could salvage from his old home. For the first time since the fire, Dimitri would be seeing…  </p><p>“I’m sure,” he replied through the sudden dryness in his throat.</p><p>Blue eyes rose to meet his own. “I can understand wanting to go right away, but if you feel like it’ll be too much for you right now…” His brows furrowed as he left the sentence hanging.</p><p>Dimitri expected the man to leave, as he was wont to do when the silence got too long. Instead, his uncle stayed seated, gaze unmoving as if to gauge any sign of uncertainty in his nephew’s expression. Dimitri squared his shoulders and spoke before he could find it.</p><p>“I need to go, uncle. <em> Please. </em>”</p><p>Rufus grimaced in a way that was not quite pity nor irritation. Then after a long moment, he sighed, “Okay, then we leave after lunch.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“So… ah,” his uncle’s voice was soft, uncertain, but that may have just been the ringing in his own ears. He glanced to his right, where Rufus stood with averted eyes. “Like I said before, it’s mostly just your parents’ things from their rooms and offices in here. Everything else was too damaged to keep.” In a colder voice he muttered, “The dastards really thought they’d keep valuable documents in their own home.”</p><p>Dimitri expected a wave of emotion when his uncle opened the large, metal door of the storage unit. He expected tears and overwhelming sadness, denial and perhaps even the return of the voices that still plagued his dreams on bad days. But as he walked further inside, eyes roaming across the furniture and belongings that were once scattered across his home, there was only numbness. Numbness and silence.</p><p>Uncle cleared his throat, “I’ll leave you to it, I guess. Holler if you need help with anything.”</p><p>And as he often did, the older man walked away without another word, leaving Dimitri to go through his parents’ belongings.</p><p>He supposed he should thank whoever organized the storage room; there was more than enough space for him to wander. Larger pieces of furniture and the like were bundled and stacked well enough that Dimitri could identify what everything was without having to inspect further. He tried not to linger in one place for too long. Absence of feeling aside, he was certain he would stand and stare at his father’s desk or at his mother’s favorite chaise for hours if given the chance.</p><p>Thankfully, a medium-sized chest on top of a set of drawers caught his attention. A chest that, until the incident, had been hidden somewhere in his parents’ closet.</p><p>It was about the height of this torso and twice as wide. The wood, while worn, was smooth to the touch. Dimitri didn’t know what kind of wood the chest was made of, but thankfully, it wasn’t so heavy that he couldn’t lift it off the drawers and onto the ground. His lips curled upward slightly. It wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval role playing game.</p><p>He knelt before the chest, searching for the little mechanism that would open it. He didn’t remember it requiring a key, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to go searching for one. Thankfully, his thumbs found two small buttons on either side of the chest and the lid popped open without much fanfare.</p><p>He sighed, the memory of the first and only time he’d seen it resurfacing. It had been after a party — someone’s birthday or anniversary, or perhaps a business function of sorts. His father had been rifling through its contents when little Dimitri, giggly and excitable from his extra slice of cake, barged in, demanding hugs.</p><p>Lambert, ever patient with his toddler son, had complied without question. And when his curious eyes spotted the strange contraption peeking out from the pretty box on the bed, he’d been all too willing to answer. He balanced the small child on his arm and took the  large black object from the box. He presented it to him with a fond smile.</p><p>
  <em> “This is a camera, Mitya. Papa’s first camera.” </em>
</p><p>Little Dimitri hadn’t gotten the chance to touch it back then. He’d asked his father a deluge of questions about cameras and pictures that extended past his usual nap time. By the time he’d woken from his nap, the camera and chest were stowed away and the conversation was forgotten until over a decade later.</p><p>It was bulky in his hands, larger and heavier than he expected it to be despite its manageable size. He traced his fingers across the errant scratches on its body, a sign of frequent use rather than careless mishandling. Some of the more detailed work — the logo, brand and model type — had faded somewhat, but he could still make them out if he squinted hard enough.</p><p>Inspecting it further, he found no signs of wear that betrayed the camera’s age. No cracks on the glass or ominous jingling of loose parts as he turned it over. Dimitri held it up, and, noting that the body was large enough to cover his face entirely, peered into the viewfinder. A perfect view of his surroundings, as expected. Maybe a little blurry around the edges, but he supposed that most old cameras had that problem.</p><p>With careful hands, he placed the camera down onto the side of the chest and scooted himself closer to examine the rest of the chest’s contents: two stacks of books. He ran his hands in the gap between them, counting six on each side, all wider than they were tall and bound in the same thick blue leather. His fingers trailed along one of the topmost books, marveling at its silver spine.</p><p>Moving his hand to a corner, he noticed that the cover and pages were much thicker than a regular book. The identical smiling faces of two blond boys greeted him as he flipped the front cover.</p><p>Despite the sudden pang of longing — the visceral desire to have someone, anyone, be with him — a smile made its way to his face. People always said that Dimitri took after his father, and he supposed his uncle, in looks. To actually see proof, the similarities in everything, even the style of their hair, was the first comfort he’d felt in some time.</p><p>He turned each page slowly, marveling at the sight of his father and uncle in their childhood. The images were dull with age, but the happiness in each one made them bright all the same. As he rifled through the other albums, more people joined the photographs.</p><p>A young Rodrigue (who looked so much like Glenn) pelting his father with a large snowball. A redhead, clearly Sylvain’s father, with his arm around his disgruntled uncle’s shoulders, the Garreg March Academy logo prominent on their uniforms. Ingrid’s mother, caught mid-yell with a bowl of spilled ramen on the table beside her. </p><p>His mother, ecstatic, showing off a simple blue ring on her left hand.</p><p>Even little Dimitri, toothless and chubby-cheeked, gnawing on the ear of what had been his favorite lion plush.</p><p>By the clear indentations of the plastic holding them in place, the photos hadn’t been removed from the album in decades. He looked through the other books and found them to be the same.</p><p>He knew his father was fond of photography. He wasn’t a professional by any means, but a camera would always be in his hands to capture the important moments of their lives. He took candid photos, Dimitri remembered. While official family portraits and captioned articles lined their hallway walls, Dimitri’s room was filled with Lambert’s shots of him and his friends running through sprinklers and crying over melted snowmen.</p><p>Dimitri always wondered where his father kept his photos; it seemed he finally found it.</p><p> As distracted as he was, Dimitri didn’t notice that someone had approached until he heard a faint, familiar sigh from behind him.</p><p>“To think he kept it all this time.”</p><p>He started, turning to find his uncle slowly walking towards him with slumped shoulders and his mouth drawn in a thin line. As he approached, Dimitri noticed that his eyes were trained at the camera on the floor.</p><p>Rufus gestured to a spot to his right, head tilted in question. Dimitri nodded and moved a few inches to the left, inviting his uncle to sit beside him. If his uncle noticed the distance Dimitri chose to keep, he didn’t show it. Instead, he sat down on the ground with crossed legs and picked up the camera with hesitant hands. He didn’t speak, only looking at the camera with distant eyes.</p><p>It seemed like hours had passed before he finally spoke, his voice tight and wistful.</p><p>“It was a birthday gift — to me, not him. Our parents thought that maybe steering me into a hobby would curb my behavior, so they pulled me into lesson after painfully dull lesson.” His grimaced, “My summers were packed with the stupidest mix of workshops.”</p><p>He shook his head, chuckling darkly, “Now that I think about it, all that time and money they spent probably led to my stupid, childish mindset that money could fix all my problems.”</p><p>And then his uncle told him a story.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> There was once a boy and his younger brother. (Eleven minutes younger, the former pushed, never one to waste an opportunity to lord it over the other.) They were blessed with more than anyone could ask for: wealth, looks, and the unwavering adoration of many even in their young age. Life was pleasant, and every day brought something new to be thankful for. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Then the boys grew up and learned that their fortune came at a cost. Their father headed a company, like his father before him and so on, and it was clear that one of the brothers would inherit that same duty in the future. And with all eleven minutes of glory, that duty fell to the older brother and he was quickly put through the paces. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The boys were equal in wit and charm, their intelligence unmatched by their peers, but one was more studious, more obedient, and far more suited to be the heir — and it wasn’t the older brother. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The older brother wasn’t stupid, nor was he lazy or callous by any means. But he didn’t want the future that was being thrust upon him, nor did he approve of the sudden and constant wave of achievements that had suddenly been expected of him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So he rebelled. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He whined and demanded for every little thing his mind could conjure. He bullied and sneered at his peers and talked back to his elders. He skipped classes for fun and stayed out late into the night. When he grew older, he pursued every woman that gave him the time of day and indulged in a myriad of vices that, without his family’s wealth, could have ruined him completely. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> His parents caught on early, knowing he was acting out on purpose to discourage their plans. But they believed that his behavior was due to envy of his more gifted brother. So they redirected him to more artistic pursuits. </em>
</p><p>Rufus snorted. “Between us, Lambert was the creative one, but ironically, Mother and Father wouldn’t let him take on any hobbies like that — said it would distract him from his studies,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “So I told him about my own lessons instead, taught him what little I absorbed that day and he practiced along with me.”</p><p>Dimitri remembered his father painting the winter landscape that hung on his bedroom wall and the delicious cake that he would bake for every birthday. He recalled the upright piano in their living room, and how his father would occasionally play the same simple tune on ivory keys before closing the lid.</p><p>“There was one time when he answered all the music worksheets my hag of a tutor shoved onto me for not listening to her lectures. Lambert did them so perfectly that she thought I was some musical genius. Sucks for her though, because I was as worthless as she expected,” he shrugged.</p><p>‘’How… how did he get your camera?” Dimitri asked, hoping that his uncle would tell him more. He hadn’t spoken while Rufus told his story out of respect. But he was afraid that he would lose the chance to hear more if he didn’t ask now.</p><p>With a sad smile, his uncle continued. “He always had this optimistically bright view of the world, so it wasn’t any surprise to me that he took to photography so quickly. It was the only thing I saw him fight for too, now that I think about it. He only ever asked to borrow my camera when our parents were in the room — in the loudest voice he could muster while still being polite.” His hands tightened around the camera and his smile softened with fondness. “He asked for it so many times that I just told him not to give it back to me. I’ll never forget the look on his face after that.”</p><p>He raised a hand towards the chest and Dimitri tilted his head in question. Rather than speak, his uncle gestured to the pile of albums. With a cry of understanding, he scrambled to hand him the closest one. He laughed, a short but happy sound, and took the album offered to him. He nestled the camera in the hollow between his legs and laid the blue book on his lap.</p><p>“He took pictures of everything, you know,” he said, turning the pages with gentle reverence, “So much that everyone who worked at the developing studio sent him presents for his birthday and Christmas. He moved all his furniture around so he could have an entire wall to display them. And when he couldn’t cram any more on the walls, he learned scrapbooking.”</p><p>He stopped at a photograph of a young smiling couple, carrying one blond baby each in their arms. “You know, there weren’t a lot of pictures of the four of us looking happy — mostly stupid professional portraits that took hours to prepare for. Heh, it’s why even Lambert looked so frustrated in them.”</p><p>He turned the pages, the images showing the two babies growing into playful little boys. Now and then, the couple would join them — standing with them as they blew out birthday candles, pushing them on swings, hugging them from behind. “But there was a time when things were easy. When I could run into my parents’ room with my little brother at my heels and feel like nothing in the world could take away how happy I felt. That was all I really wanted.”</p><p>
  <em> Unfortunately for the older brother, the life he wished for would never return to him. His parents only grew impatient with time and eventually responded to his behavior with apathy. The boy took that apathy as dismissal, and as soon as he was able, he left and never looked back. </em>
</p><p>“Lambert called me not too long after I left, but I was an angry prick and left him on voicemail,” Again, he averted his eyes, his hands curling into shaking fists. “He said that our parents were throwing my stuff away, making a big show of it to the neighbors too. He ranted and raved — quietly, of course — for a good half-hour before telling me that he saved what he could. ‘<em> I’ll visit you as soon as I can. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep everything </em>’. Heh, I never did call him back after that.”</p><p>
  <em> The older brother spent the next few years alone. Hopping from place to place in vain hope of finding a place where he belonged. All the while, the younger brother followed to the best of his ability. He called and sent regular letters, talking about his day and the things his brother had missed. He would even send him photographs taken with a well-loved camera. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> When time allowed, the brothers would meet in secret, but the visits would never last long. Over time, the meetings stopped altogether. The older brother hadn’t been there for the younger’s wedding. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Or their parents’ funerals. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Or his nephew’s birth. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But he had been there for his younger brother’s funeral. </em>
</p><p>His uncle’s breath hitched and he pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes. This didn’t stop the stream of tears that fell against the album pages. Dimitri blinked against the stinging in his own eyes. As his vision blurred, he realized that he had yet to cry for his parents’ and loved ones’ deaths.</p><p>Slowly, he reached over and squeezed his uncle’s hand. It was a small comfort, but he doubted words were what his uncle needed right now. The hand turned in his grasp and Dimitri felt his uncle squeeze back. For the longest time, it was just them and the silence punctured by sobbing and hitched breaths.</p><p>Eventually, their tears dried, but his uncle untied the medical patch covering his bad eye anyway. He gently wiped his thumb over it with an amused smile, “And here I was, thinking I’d be consoling you today.”</p><p>Dimitri responded with a watery laugh, “You’re doing great, uncle.”</p><p>“Hah! You’re even more like Lambert than I thought, that joke was terrible!”</p><p>“What? Father told amazing jokes!”</p><p>His uncle grinned, reaching up to ruffle Dimitri’s hair playfully. He pulled away with an indignant cry, which only prompted more laughter from the man.</p><p>“Look boy, er, Dimitri,” the hand on his head moved down to his shoulder. “I did a lot of things that I’m not proud of, but cutting ties with my parents isn’t one of them. Well-meaning, they might have been, but being around them made me feel like I was less than nothing. And that I was wrong for feeling that way. I’m never going to regret that choice.”</p><p>His gaze wandered across the room, at everything that Lambert left behind.</p><p>“What I do regret is letting my bitterness spill over to my brother who loved me — who tried again and again to reach out to me. Who kept the silly little camera I gave him as a present and stowed away my pictures before my parents could throw them away. I’m going to regret being too late to make amends, and I’ll carry that for the rest of my life.”</p><p>Rufus squeezed his shoulder, locking eyes with him. And for a moment, Dimitri felt like he was looking at his father again.</p><p>“But you, Dimitri, you’re here. You’re here and I can make up for all the years I spent away from you, because you don’t deserve to feel like I did when I was your age. I’m not doing this, hoping that my brother will forgive me for how I treated him. I’m doing this because you’re my nephew. My nephew, who, in a painfully short amount of time, has gone through more than I could ever know.”</p><p>Dimitri raised a hand to his shoulder, squeezing his uncle’s hand once again.</p><p>“You’re my nephew, the only family I have left, and I’m not about to let you go. I let go of someone precious once, and I am never, ever, going to do that again.”</p><p>After a long moment, Dimitri drew closer, his thigh touching Rufus’s own. He pointed to a picture of his father and Rodrigue with their hair tied in beribboned pigtails, the former looking far more amused than the latter.</p><p>“<em> Your Uncle Rufus will be returning to Fhridiad in a few days, Mitya. I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s the most wonderful person!” </em><br/>
<br/>
“Will you tell me what happened in this one, uncle?”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>“And it’s done,” Rufus cheered, taking a few steps back to admire their handiwork. He slung an arm over Dimitri’s shoulders and pulled the boy to his side. “Finally! If I ever see that stupid level again, it’ll be too soon.”</p><p>Dimitri laughed and patted the hand on his shoulder in wholehearted agreement.</p><p>While they had both been looking forward to redecorating the living room, planning for weeks and dedicating Friday evening and all of the weekend to its completion, that hadn’t made the work any less tedious… or exhausting.</p><p>He was thankful that they scrapped their original concept for the project. If they had that much trouble with paintbrushes, a drill and hammers, then he didn’t even want to think about how they would handle more complicated power tools.</p><p>“I still don’t see why we couldn’t hire people to help us, uncle. We could’ve been done much earlier <em> and </em> we would’ve spared your poor thumb from all the abuse it took.”</p><p>“Nonsense, boy, we did it just fine on our own,” he scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. The same one whose thumb they’d liberally wrapped in bandages after the third time it was hit instead of a nail, hoping it would lessen the impact of the dozen more accidental hits that followed. Dimitri’s left thumb was similarly bandanged. “And the only thing it cost us was our pride.”</p><p>Dimitri shook his head, “Our pride and all of your free time. Didn’t you want to relax after your month-end financial meetings?”</p><p>“Bah, I’ll live,” he smirked. “While I can’t ditch because ‘<em> I have responsibilities as acting President and CEO </em>’, I could always make Rodrigue do the hard work for me. That’s what I pay him for anyway.”</p><p>“Uncle…”</p><p>“What? He’s the one who suggested we do this in the first place.”</p><p>Dimitri raised a curious brow, “Rodrigue did?”</p><p>“Well, he didn’t tell me to do DIY projects with you per se, but he did suggest we try doing things together to bond. So here we are. Bonding.”</p><p>“Bonding?”</p><p>“Yes, bonding. Just look at us, we’ve bonded.”</p><p>And look he did. Dimitri saw his uncle’s arm around his shoulders and their matching bandage-wrapped thumbs, their paint-splotched clothing and messy low ponytails.</p><p>He smiled, “You’re right, uncle, we have.”</p><p>“Heh, now all that’s left is clean up,” Rufus said, his smirk morphing into a strained smile, “... great.”</p><p>Dimitri’s face crumpled along with his; his gaze now surveying the aftermath of their work. </p><p>Scraps of paper and folded cardboard boxes were strewn about the room. Paint buckets littered a far wall, most of them unopened since they bought far more than they actually needed. He winced, remembering that they hadn’t rinsed off their brushes and roller yet. He sincerely hoped they wouldn’t harden.</p><p>His eyes roamed to the toolbox whose other contents they barely touched. After scavenging for the hammer and level, there wasn’t much use for anything else. Speaking of the level, Dimitri chuckled at the sight of it propped against the corner of the room like it was on time-out. Poor thing, punished for doing its job.</p><p>Finally, his gaze wandered to the wall — the pale blue accent wall that would be the first thing anyone would see when they entered the room.</p><p>One dozen picture frames surrounded a plain box shelf. While they varied in size and orientation, they were all made of the same blackened wood. There, they placed one photograph from each of his father’s prized albums — from the shaky, off-angle picture of himself and his brother on his birthday to the final family portrait he had taken with his wife and son.</p><p>And at the very center of it all sat his father’s camera and the blue and silver albums that he’d so lovingly compiled.</p><p>“I think we’ll manage, uncle. Together.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you again to Bana for your beautiful artwork, and to my wonderful beta Anya for powering through my mess of tenses and vague descriptions.</p><p>Thank you to you a well for getting this far. The next chapter will hopefully be coming out soon! As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated. If you want to scream at me online, you can find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/cROAissant">Twitter</a> and lurking at least three 3H Discord servers.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>